


Crossroads

by queenseamoose



Series: Saint, Sinner, Savior [1]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 08:51:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7428220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenseamoose/pseuds/queenseamoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before she was the Boss, she was just a girl with a decision to make</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossroads

It finally dawned on her that the vague buzzing sound she kept hearing was her phone—and that the water spraying down on her was considerably less warm than it’d been when she’d first stepped under it. She reached up and shut off the faucet, leaning her head against the shower wall as she listened to the last of the water trickle down the drain, punctuated by the elevated rhythm of her heart. Then she heard her phone buzzing again.

Groaning, she hauled herself to her feet, nearly slipping in the pooled water as she grabbed her worn towel and batted the curtain aside. Dragging the towel over her hair, she crossed to the sink and picked up her phone, wincing as she flipped it open and the display lit up. Half a dozen missed calls, all from Derek. And texts, too.

WHERE ARE YOU?

ARE YOU COMING IN TODAY?

YOUR SHIFT STARTED 10 MINUTES AGO

ARE YOU REALLY DOING THIS TO ME?

THIS IS STRIKE ONE ABIGAIL

She groaned again as she checked the date—sure enough, it was Wednesday, and she was scheduled to work this afternoon. Growling to herself, she flung open the bathroom door with such force that it bounced off the wall and stomped across the apartment, ignoring the fact that she was dripping water everywhere. _Sorry_ , she typed out a reply. _Can’t make it in. Not feeling well_.

She tossed the phone onto her unmade bed, scraping her still-wet hair into a ponytail and digging through her drawers for a T-shirt. She was emptying an unfolded basket of laundry in search of a pair of jeans when her phone buzzed again.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

She couldn’t help but smirk a little in satisfaction. Derek did have quite the overinflated ego, and any chance to get under his skin was well worth it to her. When a former classmate had wandered into the Mission Beach Freckle Bitch’s the week prior, she’d convinced the younger girl to spend the next several days calling non-stop with complaints. Derek had nearly torn his hair out, and she’d hidden in the back, laughing herself sick.

Snapping her phone shut, she padded into the apartment’s little makeshift kitchen, surveying the mess that lay before her. The trash can by the door was overflowing, pots and pans littered the counter, and the sink was overflowing with dishes. For the past six months, the majority of her meals had come on little plastic trays in cardboard boxes, but over the past few days, she’d been forced to make a greater effort. She’d been running low on groceries to begin with—and from the moment the door to her apartment had been slammed and bolted shut behind her late Sunday night, she hadn’t dared set foot outside.

Eyeing the burned remains of oatmeal sticking to the inside of the nearest pot, she sidled out of the kitchen and over to the window. Tentatively, she reached out and parted the blinds, noting that her fingers were trembling as she did so. Her heart quickened as the crack of golden sunlight spilled in, but the street was empty. Further down on the corner, she could see two figures—one an elderly woman, the other a middle-aged man in a bathrobe—engaged in some kind of argument, arms flapping and voices faintly echoing off the surrounding buildings. Just another day on the Row.

She sighed as she stepped away from the window and sat down at the rickety little table, dropping her head into her hands to massage her throbbing temples. Three days had passed—three days since she’d lain bleeding on the pavement and stared down the cold, steel barrel of a gun, bracing herself for a death that never came.

Instead, there’d been a dead gangster sprawled at her feet, a friendly hand helping her up, a comforting word of reassurance. But as she sat toying with her phone, she was reminded of the real reason she wasn’t going to work. She _was_ still terrified half out of her wits, and it was always fun to mess with Derek, but at the moment, she had other concerns.

Because there’d been a rescue that night, yes—but there’d also been an offer: an invitation, and the more she thought about it, a challenge. She wasn’t stupid; she’d lived in Stilwater her entire life, and she knew a gang when she saw one. You didn’t walk around armed to the teeth wearing that much purple unless you were in one. The smart thing to do would be to just count herself lucky to have walked away with her life and put the entire incident behind her, but her rescuer’s words kept repeating in her head.

_The Row’s got a problem. Come to the church if you want to be part of the solution._ Despite the fact that she’d still been trembling with fear at the time, she’d nearly snorted when she heard that. No shit, the Row had a problem. The entire damn city did—only there was no solution. She’d been down that road before—and that had been what brought her here, she remembered darkly.

But there’d been something in his voice—the _conviction_ with which he spoke—that made her almost believe him. Or _want_ to believe him, rather. She uneasily rose and returned to the window. Stilwater was a lost cause; she knew that. When she left home, she should have just kept driving and left this god-forsaken city to burn. But she’d been afraid, she remembered, and then she’d grown complacent. And maybe she was paying for that now.

But she was still here—wasn’t she? Three nights ago might have been her last night on earth—if not for the strangers’ intervention. Thanks to them, one less innocent had to pay for Stilwater’s sins. And wasn’t that something?

Although if she went to that church, she thought nervously, she’d be an innocent no longer. Her rescuer—Julius, his companion had called him—had shot a man in cold blood, after all.

The thought was sobering.

She turned away from the window, a sick feeling rising in her stomach. No matter what she did, it seemed her choice would be the wrong one. Become a menace, a criminal—or stand by and watch as Stilwater was slowly destroyed, caught between its government’s corrupt, lazy administration and its gangs’ violence. She’d already removed herself from the former—but was the latter any better? At least it was honest about its intentions. But either way seemed to indicate some moral failing on her part.

She groaned as she paced the length of the room. Wasn’t it universally agreed upon that doing nothing was the same as being complicit in wrongdoing? And in light of her own experience the other night, her uncertainty seemed ludicrous. Gangs were running rampant in the streets, slaughtering anyone who crossed their paths—and she was here debating whether putting a stop to it was morally sound. Her hackles rose at the memory of the cold detachment in her assailant’s voice as he’d pointed the gun at her head: _Wrong time, wrong place._

Her heart rate was rising, her palms gone sticky, and in that instant, she knew she’d made her decision. Making her way over to the table on shaky legs, she quickly gathered up her keys and phone, stuffing them into her pockets. If she didn’t go now, she’d lose her nerve. Of course, there was always the chance that she’d turn around halfway there, she thought wryly, but she had to try.

At the door, she paused and glanced around the apartment. She had no idea what she was walking into or what to expect once she got there, but somehow, she got the feeling she’d be a different person the next time she set foot in this room. Breathing a silent prayer for courage, she stepped outside and closed the door—and a chapter of her life—behind her.


End file.
